


but it's in my roots

by sidnihoudini



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e07 Sorbet, Hannibal Advent, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e07 Sorbet, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5263217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Hannibal Advent.</p><p>“Shall we take my car?  I can return you when we are done," Hannibal asks.</p><p>Without meaning or wanting to, Will feels himself blush a little bit at the idea of Hannibal <i>returning him</i> once he has been sufficiently <i>used.</i></p><p>“That’s fine,” He says, instead of what has suddenly flooded his mind with the subtlety of shattering glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but it's in my roots

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for [Hannibal Advent](http://existingcharactersdiehorribly.tumblr.com/post/133703261849/the-seventh-day-of-hannibaladvent-is-sorbet) because I couldn't let Sorbet day pass me by! It was the episode that started my obsession with these two, and Franklyn is too good of a character to not include. I love Hannibal-Will-Franklyn fics.
> 
> 11/28 - Previously known as "there are weeds growing out of my finger tips"

For some reason the implication of the wine doesn’t occur to Will until he’s already left the bottle in Hannibal’s possession, and returned to Wolf Trap by himself.

He spends ten minutes standing at the oven in his underwear with Winston at his feet and a spatula in his hand. Will makes himself the perfect grilled cheese sandwich, and has a philosophical conversation with the dog - even if it is a bit one sided. He thinks about the sitcoms he never has time to watch, and wonders if anyone has a friend group like that in real life.

If he did, would he tell them about Hannibal? Would he admit to being a big hairy man with a big hairy crush on some Lithuanian guy ten years his senior?

Will flips his grilled cheese again, and decides that his pretend friends would likely have to beat it out of him. He imagines Katz as one of them. They would all meet up for beers at some bar that was magically within walking distance to everyone’s perfectly furnished apartment, and they would all laugh at Will over perfectly chilled glasses of booze. For some reason, this daydream takes place in New York. New York Will would roll his eyes and blush, and come up with some kind of witty one-liner right before the laugh track pulsed over their conversation.

Wind knocks against the side of the house, jolting Will out of his daydream. He glances back over his shoulder out of habit. There’s no one there. Hannibal didn’t follow him; Will knows the man is hosting a lavish dinner party that he had, for some god forsaken reason, invited Will to.

He wonders now if some kind of carrier pigeoned note would have been more appropriate than stammering and shutting Hannibal down the minute the party came up in conversation. In fact, in his sitcom fantasy, Will would possess the skill of calligraphy and have access to a wealth of fancy papers. It would be his _thing_ , his little _quirk_.

“Instead I get a broken head and an empathy disorder,” He says to Winston conversationally, smiling a little when the dog’s ears perk. It’s clear Winston thinks Will is talking about sharing his sandwich, as he tilts his head to listen and focus on watching Will’s fingers wrapped around the frying pan. “Not today, buddy, sorry.”

Will ends up eating his grilled cheese right out of the pan, and watching the dark night roll by outside alone.

It’s not likely he’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight, but at least this way the few moments of rest he does get won’t be overshadowed by any residual embarrassment that would have likely stemmed from being a bumbling guest at Hannibal’s fancy party.

He has to admit, he’s a little jealous of Jack for fitting in so easily; like he’s been waiting his whole life to sit at Hannibal’s dining room table and comment on the dishes steadily passing beneath his nose.

For some reason, Will lays in bed that night and daydreams about what it might feel like to be the man Hannibal clearly thinks he is, despite all evidence showing otherwise. He imagines letting his hair grow out an extra inch or two; just long enough to look purposeful instead of the strange mop he sports now. It would be shiny and dark. In his fantasy, Hannibal dresses him. Hannibal would like it, the process; picking out the fabrics, the cuts, knowing it was he who led Will to look so handsome and purposeful.

Will falls asleep thinking about what it might be like to sit at the other end of the table from Hannibal, a fork in one hand and a knife held loosely in the other. Easy banter, laughter, a steady hand reaching for his wine glass.

It doesn’t seem impossible, for some reason, when Will is all by himself in the middle of the night.

~

Will drives into work the next morning, unable to shake the image from his head.

It’s silly - no, actually it’s completely on this side of stupid - to let himself think about it. But for some reason, the more he tries to limit himself to leaving Hannibal in a professional box only, the more compelled he is to strip the away the cardboard himself.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or crawl underneath his desk with a bottle of bourbon when he gets to his classroom and finds an email from Hannibal waiting for him. It seems strange to receive any kind of electronic correspondence from the man - Will has never pictured Hannibal doing anything as plebian as typing out a message or tapping away to write a simple text - but here it is anyway.

“Dear Will,” He reads outloud under his breath, half stooped over the desk, only partially in his chair. “Please join me for lunch today as a thank you for the thoughtful gift you left me with last night.”

Below that, Hannibal has typed, _Eleven-thirty?_ and then, a few lines below that, _\-- H.L._ , like he’s some kind of mid-century count.

Will bites back his smile the moment he realises it’s crept across his face. For some reason Hannibal signing off on an email with only his initials is very endearing this morning. Will blames it on the minimal amount of coffee he’s had today.

 _I teach until 11:20_ , he types first, raising a paranoid eyebrow towards the overhead projector as the first students begin to trickle in and set up in the middle rows. It’s just the standby screen; he isn’t projecting his weird personal life for everyone else to see.

He deletes that, and frowns, resting his mouth against his knuckles as he stares at Hannibal’s words carefully. He has no idea how to write an email and be sociable. Nobody emails him, other than his students, and his replies are usually succinct and without personality.

_Lunch would be good. See you at 11:30. Will._

For a hot second he briefly entertains signing off as “W.C.Graham,” but quickly decides against it.

Hannibal might think he was serious, or something.

~

Will realizes he’s completely lost track of time when he looks up and sees Hannibal making his way towards him.

“I’m sorry,” Will blurts, already on the apology train the second he realizes all of his students are long gone.

As usual, Hannibal just looks at him sweetly, like he expected the cards to fall in this exact order.

“No need to be sorry, I am a few minutes early at least,” Hannibal lies. Neither of them mention it’s 11:42.

Tugging his jacket from the back of the desk chair, Will jams his laptop into his messenger bag and fumbles himself around the side of the desk. Hannibal watches him serenely, gloved hands curled at either hip as he lets Will struggle to organize himself under the weight of Hannibal’s heavy gaze.

Will starts walking towards the doors once he’s gotten himself situated, knowing that Hannibal will follow.

“Where are we going?” He asks, tugging the classroom door closed behind them as Hannibal steps out into the hall.

He doesn’t close the classroom door regularly, he doesn’t know why he’s fumbling to do so just because Hannibal is here. He ends up leaving it closed but unlocked, and then fiddles with his glasses as they start down the corridor.

Within ten steps, he tugs them off of his face and throws them into his messenger bag, instead.

“I made earlier reservations at a small restaurant downtown,” Hannibal explains, clearly trying to sell the casual aspect of their lunch date as they both make their way towards the exit doors. “I believe you will like it. I have dined personally with the chef; he is very good at what he does.”

Will nods, and holds the exit door open for Hannibal to walk through. As an afterthought, he asks, “Is this a fancy place?”

It’s kind of a stupid question to ask Hannibal, of all people.

“I believe it depends on what your definition of fancy is,” Hannibal teases anyways. “Shall we take my car? I can return you when we are done.”

Without meaning or wanting to, Will feels himself blush a little bit at the idea of Hannibal _returning him_ once he has been sufficiently _used._

“That’s fine,” He says, instead of what has flooded his mind with the subtlety of shattering glass.

Once they’re inside the car, Will tugs the seat belt across his chest and clicks it in the buckle as he watches the school disappear through the window. He knows it’s equally as stupid as his little daydreams were the night before, but sometimes he wonders what people think when they see he and Hannibal together.

Have they ever been mistaken for a couple? Will lets his gaze unfocus as he watches the window pane, and allows himself to see he and Hannibal through one of his students eyes. It isn’t hard to connect the dots: two adult men, close enough to have intimate conversations, to regard one another easily and as openly as Will is equipped to.

He doesn’t know how it makes him feel, to consider someone wondering if they are romantically involved.

Some tiny, stupid, dangerous part of Will’s brain likes it. He likes laying claim to Hannibal, however imaginary it may be.

It’s why he continues to surround himself with Hannibal, despite his unwillingness to toe the line in the sand with anyone else. It’s why he stops by unannounced with bottles of cheap wine just before Hannibal hosts a dinner party for the Baltimore social elite; it’s why he wanders Hannibal’s office during their not-appointments, touching every book spine and bust Hannibal will allow him to.

 _Just to mark you up a little bit,_ Will thinks.

He likes to claim Hannibal in this way, and he likes that Hannibal does not allow anyone else to do so in return.

Hannibal pulls into a small parking lot ten minutes later, navigating his car into one of the five spots that lay along the length of the restaurant building. Three of the five are marked as reserved, and the fourth is already filled with an expensive, European looking sports car. In front of the store, there’s a cheap mid-sized compact parked against the curb.

“What is this place, anyway?” Will asks, following along behind Hannibal as Hannibal leads him around to the main door.

Fuck, Will thinks instead, when he sees the restaurant’s name etched into the front window in gold. He’s heard about this restaurant over the years: _Charleston_ , one of the most expensive places to eat in Baltimore.

“One of my favorites,” Hannibal replies, clearly pleased with himself as he holds the door open for Will to step through first. “The chef has a beautiful take on classic Southern food that I thought you would appreciate.”

The maitre d’ greets Hannibal warmly, like it’s a cheap deli and they’re stopping by for their daily lunch time subs.

A strange thought pops into Will’s head that he can’t quite get rid of: _if only dad could see me now_. He shakes it off as quickly as it came, and vows never to think about his father seeing what he and Hannibal get up to now or in the future ever again.

Will follows along behind Hannibal and the maitre d’ woodenly, trying not to kick Hannibal in the back of the knees for pulling such a bait and switch. Next time Hannibal offers a gift in return for a $40 bottle of wine, Will is going to know better. He’s going to force Hannibal’s hand, and accept nothing more than a ten dollar Starbucks gift card.

Despite Will’s knee jerk reaction, it’s pretty obvious Hannibal is pleased with himself. He has to realize Will doesn’t dine out regularly, and on the rare occasion he does, aims for more of a Dominos situation than a chef’s table. Will tries to glare at Hannibal from across the expensive silverware as they’re seated, set up with a wine list, offered flutes of sparkling water, and left to decide on the first round of appetizers.

Hannibal studiously avoids Will’s gaze, but can’t quite wipe the happy smirk off of his face as he looks down at the menu.

After a few moments of consideration, Hannibal speaks to the inside of the menu, and admits, “I wanted to express my gratitude for the bottle of wine you delivered the other night.”

“I hardly think a five hundred dollar meal is in equal trade to a forty dollar bottle of wine,” Will says, sounding closer to flabbergasted than sour despite himself.

Smiling serenely, Hannibal sets the menu down - Will knows he’s already planned on their entire meal - and reaches for his water.

“Then I suppose this is simply the cost of good conversation,” Hannibal answers, all pleased with himself, and Will hardly knows how to respond to that.

Instead of saying anything a normal person might - like _that’s a nice thing to say to someone_ or _oh, Hannibal,_ Will frowns and thumbs at the menu before he replies, “That’s hardly a fair trade. I may not be cultured, but I know this is the most expensive restaurant in town. They don’t even _display prices_ , Hannibal.”

Amused, Hannibal simply shrugs, and says, “I suppose you will owe me after this, then.”

Will is left gobsmacked despite himself. He doesn’t know whether to frown or preen at the way Hannibal is treating him, like an angry pony that must be broken in and loved.

“Have we decided on the first course?” The maitre d’ asks, full of warmth and courtesy as he appears at the edge of the table with their wine. Will stays quiet and watches as he pours out two glasses of wine, and then sets the bottle gently in the middle of the table.

Hannibal orders for both of them, which Will both expected and finds himself grateful for. He’d have no idea how to order in a fancy place like this; he’ll need a few more of these dates with Hannibal before he’s comfortable enough to know the difference between sauteed and stir fry, syrah and cabernet. Maybe one day he’ll get there. Maybe one day he won’t.

For all of the things he knows, there are even more he doesn’t - and most of those things both begin and end with the state of he and Hannibal’s relationship.

The maitre d’ leaves them to their wine. Will gravitates towards his automatically, letting his fingers wrap around the curve of the glass as Hannibal does the same and holds his glass up for a toast.

“Thanks,” Will says, for lack of anything better to say, as their glasses clink against one another’s.

Hannibal smiles, inhales the scent of the wine, and replies, “To good conversation.”

Will practically squirms, bowing under Hannibal’s gaze as he takes another sip of his drink.

~

To Will’s surprise, Hannibal orders lobster, crab, and Creole shrimp.

It’s the fanciest table full of seafood Will has ever seen, but at the end of the day it’s just a glorified Southern boil. Hannibal has also ordered small dishes of corn and asparagus, both plated and decorated in a way that makes the vegetables seem far more glamorous than they really are.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Will laughs, easing into the meal in its sudden familiarity. He leans forward and begins to push up the sleeves of his work button down; he doesn’t care if Hannibal paid hundreds of dollars for this food, he’s using his hands like a normal human being.

Surprisingly, Hannibal seems to take Will’s cue. Without much further thought, he removes his own suit jacket and lets it hang over the back of his chair before moving onto his cufflinks. Those are set at the base of his wine glass, and then his perfectly ironed cuffs are rolled up once, twice, three times - oh god, suddenly Will feels like he’s going to have a coronary at the sight of Hannibal’s forearms for the second time this week.

“I believe you once told me this is the only way to eat seafood,” Hannibal says, easing forward in his seat to begin cracking into his lobster.

Will laughs again and then digs in as well, just barely talking himself out of tucking his very expensive looking napkin into the collar of his shirt. He settles for spreading it out over his lap, instead.

They eat quietly, deeply absorbed in the food and equally appreciative of the wine. Will has eaten a lot of seafood, a large portion of which he cooked himself, but he’s never had it like this. 

The lobster practically melts in his mouth, so buttery he can only assume the chef used some kind of black magic during the cooking process. He hasn’t eaten much of the crab or shrimp yet, too busy gorging himself on the lobster, but both look equally delicious, and he finds himself wondering about the etiquette of requesting a doggy bag for the road.

As he’s about to broach the topic with Hannibal, Etiquette Queen, there’s a nervous laugh from the open side of the table.

Will thinks it’s the maitre d’ at first, until an unfamiliar voice says, “Oh, oh wow. I can’t believe you’re here, too!”

Secondly, Will notices the way that Hannibal’s entire face shutters in on itself. His relaxed expression tightens into one of mild annoyance, and he reaches for his own napkin, still neatly folded beside his cutlery.

“Franklyn,” Hannibal greets, gaze flickering to Will’s before he leans back slightly to stare up at the man.

Unsure of what else to do, Will swallows the bite of food currently in his mouth, and wipes his fingers off on the napkin spread on his lap. As he does so he looks up at their new acquaintance, dressed from head to toe in dark brown checkerboard flannel and corduroy. For some reason Will feels a little flare of solidarity. In another life, Will might have been Franklyn.

“Dr. Lecter, this is such a surprise! Wow, I can’t believe you’re here. Your food looks great!” He babbles, both hands moving wildly as he steps closer to their table.

You know, _or not._

“Are you dining here today, Franklyn?” Hannibal asks, affixing a professional tone. Will makes the mistake of letting his gaze drop back to Hannibal’s bare arms, so infrequently seen by anyone. Will looks at the hair on Hannibal’s forearms, and then the bony knob of his wrist and the flat plane across the top of his hand.

Franklyn falters, and Will tears his attention away from Hannibal’s long fingers to reach for his wine.

“No, no. I couldn’t get a reservation, I was attempting to see if perhaps I could swing one by stopping in personally,” Franklyn continues like a steam train, ever plowing on. “They gave me a tentative date for next November. Who’s this?”

It takes Will a second to realize that Franklyn is referring to him.

“Franklyn,” Hannibal admonishes, which makes Will think that they may have talked about whatever is happening here before.

Franklyn quickly replies, “Sorry,” but then adds, “I’m Franklyn Froideveaux, one of Dr. Lecter’s patients.”

Will fumbles his hand out of the napkin, and reaches to accept the hand Franklyn is suddenly graciously holding out to him.

“Will Graham,” Will replies, as they shake hands. Franklyn is very careful, hand clammy and cool. Will immediately wonders what parts of this exchange he’s missing: it’s clear there’s something going on beneath the surface here. “Nice to meet you, Franklyn.”

As though Hannibal is anticipating Franklyn’s next question, he adds, “Will is a coworker of mine. Is there anything else that I may do for you today, Franklyn?”

“Oh no. No no no, sorry to have interrupted your lunch, Dr. Lecter,” Franklyn bumbles, taking a step away from their table. As he does he narrowly misses backing right into a busboy walking with a tray full of dirty dishes behind him; Will cringes, expecting contact and a crash, but Franklyn manages to adjust his step just in time. “I’ll see you next week! I have a new cheese I was thinking of bringing, I really think you’d like it!”

Hannibal reaches for his wine again, fingers resting against the stem as he replies, “That really won’t be necessary, Franklyn.”

“Okay, well, that’s fine too,” He nods, eyebrows creeping ever further into his hairline. Will doesn’t know whether he should continue watching the awkward social trainwreck happening in front of him, or go back to his steadily cooling lobster. “Well, okay then - enjoy your lunch!”

He finally retreats, sending a wide smile in their direction before making his way towards the front door.

“That was one of your patients?” Will asks, as the bells jingle and signal Franklyn’s departure.

Hannibal sighs, and takes a bite of crab. After chewing thoughtfully, he admits, “I believe I may have to refer him to someone who will better suit his needs. Franklyn has a bad habit of getting too close with his psychiatrists.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Will replies, the words tumbling from his mouth without his permission.

That seems to suit Hannibal just fine. A small, coy smile begins to curl its way across his mouth.

“It was my understanding that you are not my patient,” Hannibal teases, openly enjoying the way Will’s blush creeps up his throat.

Will blames the sudden heat in his face on the wine, and lies, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal replies, voice equally soft as he shakes his head in agreement and returns to his meal.

It’s obvious to both of them that Hannibal too knows it was a lie. The expression on his face says it all.

Still a little more flustered than he’d ever admit to being, Will turns his attention back to drinking as much of this wine as he can comfortably consume before the end of the meal, and lets his eyes wander to the large window beside their table. He immediately zeroes in on Franklyn, sitting in the front seat of the compact car parked against the curb. Franklyn has both of his hands curled around the steering wheel.

He’s alternating between resting his forehead against them, and peering through the passenger seat window into the restaurant.

Will glances back over to Hannibal, still quietly pleased with himself as he eats.

Rolling his bottom lip against his teeth, Will sets his wine glass back down against the table top and lets his arm relax. His fingers curl against the base of the glass, and he feels his heart begin to beat a little faster as he begins to crawl them steadily across the table. He doesn’t know if Hannibal really doesn’t realize it, or if he’s that good of an actor, but he seems surprised when Will’s finger hesitantly touches the very edge of his.

Hannibal looks up and at Will over their expensive meal with a curious look on his face.

Will slides further in his chair a little bit more, and thinks about Franklyn, bumbling around the restaurant and sitting alone in his car parked outside. He wonders if Franklyn thinks about Hannibal in this way; if he would like to be treated to an expensive meal by the man. He tries to imagine Franklyn drinking wine and flirting and bantering, but can’t.

The only person he can see treating Hannibal in this way is currently right here in front of the man himself, twisting their fingers together until their palms are touching and their thumbs are tangled.

Hannibal tightens his grip around Will’s hand, and touches a foot to the side of Will’s beneath the table.

Will thinks about the next dinner party, and how he might look standing at Hannibal’s side.

~

 _there was something in the water_  
_now that something’s in me._

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi on tumblr!](http://bonedaddies.tumblr.com)
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> I'm always accepting Hannigram prompts, headcanons, and asks.


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